Tuesday, June 17, 2014

“The land of milk and
honey” is somewhat misleading as a description of the Holy Land. More like the
land of processed white bread. The pita is like Mexico’s tortilla or China’s
white rice…or Asheville’s whole grain, organic, free range and spiritually
harvested quinoa. And after five months of a steady diet built precariously on
a foundation of empty carbs, I noticed one morning in April that my body was beginning
to say “Halas!” (enough in Arabic).

No one likes to admit they have a bizarre rash – just the
very word itself induces collective jitters in travelers around the world. But that’s
what I got – a fierce Lichtenstein complex on the upper half of my body (thank
the Lord for small graces) from my shoulders down to my fingertips, culminating
in a hulk-like swelling and bubbling in the palms of my hands. And oh does it
itch? Like hell.

But even when my instincts about the correlation between
gluten and my “manky” hands - as my
British friend calls them - were confirmed by a local doctor, I still continued
to explore alternative factors like cleaning solutions and laundry detergent
while trying to scrape away the truth with my fingernails. Since reality set
in, I’ve gone through a number of series of committed anti-gluten regimens and cookie-driven
denial, cycling me through varying degrees of maddening itchiness.

At the moment I’m back into a semi-committed relationship
with rice cakes and exploring how the hell I can also enjoy what I love most
about the region’s food culture: falafel and hummus and all of the other
delectable dips, goos, spices, and tapenades the Middle East is famous for.
I’ve come to realize that bread is simply the vehicle for the awesomeness, but
I’m having to adapt my digestion patterns to accommodate my new reality. I can
spoon the falafel and its toppings out of the pita; the makings of a bagel are
just as good on a salad; and croissants…well, sometimes I still shed a tear or
two over the loss of chocolate croissants (or steal a bite of the Belgian
chocolate cake that has melted onto my side of the ice cream bowl. It’s a
process…)

But I was recently considering this question of having to consistently
ask “how do I eat this?” as I deal with a completely other form of digesting
the Middle East. I have no idea what international news is focusing on outside
of the World Cup, but around here and splattered all over Facebook are
outcries, speculations, and escalating emotions about three young settlers who
were recently abducted in the West Bank. At the most basic level, this is a
tragic and terrifying story of families experiencing their worst nightmares.
It’s one we are unfortunately not unfamiliar with in the US in terms of wayward
hikers and the nauseating rise in school shootings. But this kidnapping is also
part of a greater political narrative here – that of the occupation. These kids
and their families are living on contentious land – land that by international
law does not belong to them. They are intentionally residing in harm’s way as
an expression of their political and religious values, and their absence is
naturally causing a ruckus on both sides of the wall.

Feeling overall saddened and confused about the situation, I’ve
turned to a social compass for support, but my community seems just as
perplexed as I am. Some of my friends are in a complete dishevelment about this
kidnapping, demanding the return of our boys, cursing the evil of the
Palestinian leadership and spending hours praying at the Western Wall. Others
are focused on the politics of the situation –they are asking why no terrorist
organization has yet claimed responsibility for the assault as it traditionally
would; why the Palestinian Authority is being held accountable publicly but
behind closed doors the Israeli government is rejecting their help; pointing
out the hypocrisy in the scores of arrests have been made at random throughout
the West Bank. Nearly one hundred young Palestinian men are being held for
questioning – simply not coming home to their parents at night. Still others
have no idea what to think about where they stand politically, but are just
aching for the individuals caught in the conflict as they watch tensions rise
in their back yard (and holding their breaths as we welcome over three hundred
Ultimate Peace campers and staff to camp).

I’m wondering how to eat this. I think that in a previous
chapter of my life, I would have swallowed this frenetic energy and carried it
deep in my belly - digesting it like the Eucharist to somehow feel connected.
But this time I feel disconnected from this crisis, almost like I’m floating
above it. I’m choosing not to read the articles and pay attention to the news -
to instead focus on what I want and what I can control. I remember someone
asking me once how I could possibly help a beaten man simply by letting myself
get beaten. Does understanding someone
else’s inner turmoil make me better serve the world? If the answer is no, which
is a relatively new theory I’m entertaining, then what I seem to be doing with
my life experience now is taking a lick or two off the top and then leaving the
rest – acknowledging that if I chew it up and swallow, it will make me too raw
to function. But isn’t that cheating? Is it okay to dig all the good stuff out
of the middle and leave behind the stuff that hurts? Are we allowed to suck the
falafels and meat out of the sandwich and leave the pita behind?

About Me

My name is Rachel Winner. In January 2012, a woman I truly admire looked me in the eye and called me an adventurer. Not wanting to be disrespectful, I didn’t argue or tell her that I am terrified of kayaking , I think camping is stupid (probably because my friends keep inviting me to go in December) and that I’d rather do laundry than cling to the side of a cliff. She explained that last year, I came to her saying “I’m moving to Mexico. I have no idea what I’m doing and if I can do it, but that’s my plan.” And I did. Nearly a year later, we are having the same conversation about my new writing business in North Carolina, WinnersWords. And yet, here I go. I started this blog when I moved to Mexico, and I’m keeping it up with life lessons, musings and observations – all of which make up my grand adventure.